


Pickpockets and Pocket Watches

by Truff



Category: Iron Man (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Power Dynamics, Power Imbalance, Slow Burn, Theft, aristocrat!Tony, pickpocket!Peter
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-01-26
Updated: 2019-01-30
Packaged: 2019-10-16 13:30:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 5,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17550608
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Truff/pseuds/Truff
Summary: Peter was always so good at this, so confident in his abilities to slip his hand into a wealthy middle-class pocket and retrieve a wallet, a monogrammed handkerchief, a pocket watch, without suspicion. But when he chooses to steal from the wealthy, upper-class aristocrat Tony Stark, he finds that maybe his confidence might be out-matched.





	1. A Chance Encounter

**Author's Note:**

> First fanfiction posted to AO3, what a madness. This is a Victorian AU, but will have some historical inaccuracies because I'm human. Hope you enjoy!

“STOP! THIEF!”

Keep running.

Keep running.

Keep running.

This had never happened before. Peter was always so good at this, so confident in his abilities to slip his hand into a wealthy middle-class pocket and retrieve a wallet, a monogrammed handkerchief, a pocket watch, without suspicion. In theory, the busy streets of Trafalgar Square should have been perfect for Peter to take what he needed and make haste without anybody noticing.

But how was he supposed to see the Peelers behind him? It’s not like he has eyes in the back of his head.

So here he was, sprinting for his life through the bustling London streets, his bare feet slipping and sliding on smooth cobblestones. He ducked and weaved through crowds, occasionally shoving past some older gentlemen who would swear in his direction as he left them behind in the dust. His lungs were burning as he panted for oxygen, but there was no point in stopping. With the evidence of the crime still on him, and no alibi, he would easily be thrown into the city jail without a second thought. No home and no family to speak of would mean he wouldn’t be leaving for a very, very long time, even for a small crime such as this.

Keep running, Peter.

Don’t stop.

Don’t stop.

He couldn’t be caught by the Peelers. There was no way in hell he was going to let that happen. That wouldn’t just be embarrassing on his behalf, but it would be an embarrassment to Strange, for his mentor to find out that his best pickpocket was behind bars for a stupid monogrammed handkerchief. Strange had taught him everything he knew about the art of the five-fingered discount, and this was how he was going to repay him? Not bloody likely. 

Peter ducked into a random alley, the sunlight becoming obscured behind tall, slightly dilapidated buildings as he forced himself to keep running. He wasn’t in the clear yet, and judging by the sound of the boots on the stones behind him, the coppers weren’t far behind.

In the name of Queen Victoria, Peter needed a miracle. A distraction, a diversion, a-  
His thoughts were cut short in his own head when he came out of the other side of the alley and slammed into a gentleman’s torso. The speed and strength at which he barrelled into the man had him bouncing off of the stranger’s chest and sprawling on the uneven stones of the street, a cry of surprise coming from his lips as he hit the ground.

“What the-!”

“Hey, steady there.”

Peter could barely see against the sunlight, but he saw the shadow of a middle class man staring down at him, his head cocked to one side. It was like he was studying Peter, the way he held his gaze, and Peter wasn’t sure whether he liked that. He brought his hand up against his face to see the man properly, and his eyes widened.

Shit. He’s attractive. His hair was swept back, revealing little greys here and there, and his piercing brown eyes looked down at Peter with an air of amusement. His lips were curled upwards in a similarly amused smirk, and his hands were currently tucked into his waistcoat pockets.

Peter, poor Victorian street urchin Peter, just almost knocked over the most attractive man in London. Good going.

He scrambled to his feet, not even finding the time to utter an apology before he was looking around for a hiding place. He saw another alley just off to the right of where he had come out, and so headed in that direction, turning the corner and plastering himself to the wall. Hopefully, hopefully the Peelers hadn’t seen him come in this direction.

“Excuse me, sir? You happened ta’ see a young’un come in this direction? Scrawny lookin’ kid, holdin’ a handkerchief, came runnin’ past?”

Shit. Please say they weren’t asking the handsome aristocrat he had just body-slammed. Peter’s breathing was more like panting, and his chest rose and fell heavily as he remained frozen against the wall. The handkerchief in question was tucked safely in his back pocket, and he patted it comfortingly to know it was still there.

“A child? No, I can’t say I have.”

The man’s voice was deep, rumbling, and sent a chill through every bone of Peter’s body. They were asking the man he had ran into, but… he was lying. Why was he lying to the police? Wasn’t he wealthy, middle-class, the kind that would approach and report to the police when any kind of crime occurred? What the hell was going on?

“Are you sure, sir? He woulda’ been runnin’ past no less than thirty seconds ago.” A second voice spoke up this time, belonging to the second policeman of the pair that had been chasing him.

“No, I’m afraid not, gentlemen.”

“Right. Sorry ta’ bother you, sir.” The first policeman muttered. “Come on, he can’t have gone far.” He then said, presumably to his partner, before the sound of boots against heavy cobblestone took off in the other direction to Peter’s hiding spot. He sighed with relief, slumping against the wall and taking a moment to get his breath back.

After a minute or two, he dared to poke his head out into the street, only to find it empty. Nobody in sight at all, not the policemen nor the man he had bumped into. Peter frowned in confusion, tilting his head to one side as he surveyed up and down the street.

Why had that wealthy man lied to the police? They had collided with one another, there was no way he could have missed that.

Peter stepped out cautiously, adjusting the flat cap on his head and pulling the brim down to hide his face. He should probably get going, Strange was going to be wondering why he’s late back to the hideout. He sauntered back in the direction he came from, but not before taking one last look to see if he could spot the man that had saved him from prison. No such man, or anybody, was out on the street.

It must have just been kindness, Peter thought to himself. Maybe the man took pity on him for being a young boy living on the streets, decided not to grass him up to the Peelers. Either the man was very kind, or very stupid.

That thought, and that question, remained with him as he made his way back to Strange’s hideout.


	2. Thinking It Over

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A filler chapter that introduces Stephen Strange into the mix, and a mention of Steve Rogers.
> 
> This might be a slow burn, it might not, I haven’t decided yet.
> 
> also follow me on tumblr you cowards: trufaxz

“Pete, you alright?”

The sudden voice in his ear had the pickpocket flinch out of his stupor. He had been busy trying to unpick the threads of the monogram in the handkerchief, like Strange asked, but had soon given up, with the fabric resting against his knees. 

Strange’s hideout was at the very top of a creaky, dilapidated building a few minutes’ walk from St. Paul’s Cathedral, with a nearby river link running by. From his stoop, Peter watched the smoke rise from chimneys, houses occupied by those who had wealth Peter could only dream of having. 

He found himself dreaming of it more often than not, imagining that he was resting in a comfy, slightly overstuffed armchair by a warm fire while the love of his life is cooking in the next room. That was all it was going to be, though, just a dream. He sighed, desperately wishing for that fantasy to come true so that he wasn’t stuck sitting on this ledge while Strange breathed down his neck to get this handkerchief sorted so that he could sell it for double the price that it was made.

“Hm? Oh, yeah, yeah…” Peter mumbled, turning to see the man in question approaching him from inside the hideout. Despite their poverty, Strange always seemed to be wearing better clothes, shoes, hat, even a waistcoat that was only slightly dirty. He gazed at Peter expectantly, who got up to give the handkerchief back. “Sorry for not finishing it, I got distracted…”

Strange sighed at that. “Seriously, Peter? You’re not still thinking about that man, are you? I thought I told you to forget about the whole thing.” He huffed, taking the lilac handkerchief off of him and peering closely at the stitching, making sure none of the threads had been incorrectly pulled out of place.

It had been a few days since the incident with the upper-class man who lied to the police. Since then, Strange had slapped Peter upside the head and told him to stay clear of Trafalgar Square for now, as he had seen an increase in policemen patrolling the area. Peter was embarrassed, but Strange only seemed angry for a little while, before expressing that he was glad Peter was okay.

He and Strange had an odd relationship, friends but not really, parent and child but not really. Strange had found him on the streets a few years back after he had lost his parents. His family were never particularly rich in the first place, but the loss of his parents meant that Peter had hit rock bottom at the age of twelve. Now, six years later, Strange had trained him up and taught him how to be the perfect pickpocket. They lived together in a decrepit attic space, and exchange for lodgings and food, Peter went out and took what he could to give back to Strange. He didn't get much of the loot to keep for himself, but he didn’t mind that much.

“I just don’t know why he lied to the Peelers, that’s all.” Peter said quietly, following the man back inside and sitting atop his bunk, watching as Strange took a seat at the other end of the room by the sorry excuse for a fire they had going. Under the flickering light, Strange picked apart the monogram on the handkerchief, and Peter simply watched. Maybe he’d learn something.

“Listen. Just be thankful you aren’t behind bars right now, Peter. We’re not going to have this conversation again.”

“Right, right…”

“This should be okay…” Strange finished unpicking the threads from the handkerchief and held it up to the light, examining his work. “Fancy coming down with me to Hog’s, see if we can sell these things to somebody?” He asked, finally looking over in Peter’s direction. He simply shrugged in response.

“No, I’m okay. I might head out though, see who’s out this evening.” Peter replied, looking out of the hideout’s window to the skyline of London, thinking things over in his head. The evenings usually meant that people were out after concerts, performances, plays and the like. At this time of night, they would be tipsy, so Peter could easily steal a couple of wallets without arousing much suspicion. 

“Alright. You remember what I told you about Trafalgar Square, Pete. If I hear you’ve messed up again, you’re not being let back in the house.”

Peter snorted at that, heading towards the door. “I’d be heartbroken about that, Stephen, you know I would.” He teased, swinging the door open and looking back.

“And be careful you don’t see Rogers!”

Right, Rogers. The police officer with a heart of gold and a fist of steel. Peter was lucky to have never run into him before, but from what Strange told him, he knew the gentleman in question was justice personified, and one had little hope bargaining with him if you were caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. Strange had been in scraps with Rogers before, and through sheer luck was able to make it back to the house. He would have been thrown in the slammer otherwise.

“You got it, boss!” Peter called out, before leaving the hideout and letting the door slam behind him. He travelled down the staircases by hopping down the stairs two at a time, and headed through the darkening alleys to the more populated areas of the city.

Maybe he could try going back to Trafalgar Square. It has been a couple of days since he went.

And if the attractive older man was there with his charming, amused smile and shining brown eyes, well then, how could Peter resist taking a visit?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just to clarify, Peelers is Victorian slang for policemen. They were called that because the creator of the London police force was a man named Robert Peel.


	3. Mistakes Were Made

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A walk into town takes a turn for the worst.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for 50 kudos!! The kudos and comments are always welcome, so keep them coming!
> 
> Also follow me on tumblr, cowards: trufaxz.tumblr.com

As always, Peter went down the quieter roads first.

It was a way of allowing him to clear his thoughts, get into the mindset of quiet and quick that he needed to effectively steal from the upper class without being noticed. For him, it wasn’t as simple as just sticking his hand in a man’s pocket and pulling out their wallet. It was an art.

This evening, however, his thoughts were clouded, clouded by the aristocrat who had been haunting his dreams for the last few days. It wasn’t unusual to see attractive wealthy people about on the streets of London, and Peter prided himself on how well he was able to steal their possessions without getting too attached to the person he was stealing from, but…

This man was different, and he had no clue why.

He spent some time in Covent Garden first, sauntering through the sheltered market square and daring to pinch a couple of sixpences from various wallets and purses without much detection. He used two of them to buy a steak pie from his favourite stall, ran by Mr. Delmar.

Delmar greeted him with his same cheeky grin, and a raised eyebrow when Peter produced the money for the pie. The stall owner wasn’t stupid, but didn’t ask any questions about where Peter got the money for the food when he handed it over. Peter took the pie graciously, and after petting Delmar’s cat who was lounging nearby, he headed off to Leicester Square to see who was around. 

Leicester Square was only a few minutes away from Covent Garden, and in that time Peter wolfed down the pie he had bought from Delmar’s stall. It filled him up nicely, and with a spring in his step he surveyed the street and its’ pedestrians. He had to be careful where he stepped, for in places like this there were Peelers everywhere, not to mention the horse drawn carriages that came past without warning and could barrel the boy over.

It was here, in the Square, that he spotted Flash.

Ugh, Flash. Peddling to the stupid as always, he seemed to be hobbling around on a crutch today, one leg bent upwards off the floor as he begged for coins. Flash was a rival pickpocket of Peter’s, and the two had an unspoken competition between them. While Flash much preferred the ‘charm’ offensive, (although Peter thought that Flash didn’t have a charming bone in his body, and seemed to just double down on the ‘offensive’), Peter was one to simply take and run, quiet footsteps and sticking to the shadows.

However caught up they were in their rivalry though, both of them respected one another enough to not report the other to the police. Both of them knew that doing that would send their worlds spiralling into disaster, and so they mostly cooperated to stay out of trouble at the very least. 

Peter leant against the wall of a nearby building, his arms crossed and a playful smirk on his face as he watched Flash try and fail to get the money he was begging for. After a while, Flash seemed to spot him and his innocent, puppy-dog eyes expression dropped to one of annoyance.

“Well, if it isn’t Peter. What was it I told you about stayin’ out of my way?” Flash huffed, stretching his leg back out and taking a seat on the lip that jutted out of the pavement.  
Peter only grinned wider at that. “Come on now, Eugene. Can’t a gentleman watch the crowds go by in peace?” He teased, the use of Flash’s real name causing the other boy to glare at Peter, his nostrils flaring for a second. “Besides, you speak so much, it’s hard to keep track of what you say. In one ear and out the other, you know?”

“You watch your mouth, ratbag. Don’t think I didn’t hear about your scrap with the bobbies. You’re losin’ your touch, Strange said so.”

“Am not. At least I’m not hangin’ around tryin’ to con people out of their money. I just take what I need and I go, you mess with their heads. Nothin’ noble about that, Flash.”  
Flash snorted, the crutch he was originally leaning on passing between his hands as he watched Peter through narrowed eyes. “I do what I need to, Petey. You know all about that. Now, do us both a favour and bugger off. If you hang around too long, the peelers will see ya again. We don’t want that, do we Pete?”

“Fuck you and the horse you rode in on, Eugene.” And with that, Peter turned and stormed off, ignoring the cackling laughter that followed him down the street and back in the direction of Trafalgar Square. He wasn’t losing his touch. He wasn’t.

\---

When Peter got to Trafalgar Square ten minutes later, it was nicely populated, as expected. People were drifting in and out of the pubs, with some of the wealthier patrons heading in the direction of the National Gallery, and Peter watched them go by. Some pedestrians were noticeably tipsy, stumbling where they walked and giggling to one another as they passed Peter by. He grinned to himself, before heading closer to the centre of the square.

He dipped and ducked through the crowds of people, his hands deftly slipping into pockets and taking small coins as he went. He wasn’t planning to take much today, but maybe if something caught his eye…

Speaking of…

Was that…?

Peter came to a standstill, his eyes on the man in the middle distance. He peered closely, trying his best to discern the gentleman’s face from the crowd that he was stood in. They were situated near the National Gallery’s entrance, and seemed to be chatting amicably about something. Peter shrugged. Art was never of much interest to him, not that he could paint. 

However, the crowd held his interest and so he dared to sneak behind one of the men, his hand quickly slipping in and his fingers wrapping around a metallic disk with a chain attached. When he pulled his hand out and got away, he kept his ears pricked for a sign of outrage. None came. He had grabbed the pocket watch successfully, and he could barely keep the grin on his face as he slipped away from the group.

As he walked away, he noticed that the Gallery had a large red ribbon sectioning off the entrance. He’d never seen something of the sort before, and a crowd seemed to be forming not far from where the ribbon was strung up. He decided to join, to see what was going on.

“Ladies and gentlemen! If I could please have your attention, we’re due to open the exhibition any second now!”

Exhibition?

“To do so, please could you welcome a Mr. Anthony Stark to the stage! Thank you!”

The “Anthony Stark” in question took to the podium in front of the Gallery to rapturous applause, and Peter could only watch in wonder as the man began to speak, something about what a pleasure it was to be offered the opportunity to cut the ribbon. However, as he spoke, Peter noticed something about his face.

He… That was him.

The man he’d knocked into, the aristocrat who had lied to the police, that was him!

Peter’s eyes widened almost comically, and he couldn’t breathe as he watched the man speak. Everything seemed to move in slow motion, and Peter was in shock. Anthony Stark… that was his name. The man had a name. 

He was so caught up in purveying Stark’s face, taking in every detail so that he would never forget what he looked like, that he almost didn’t notice the man’s hand slip into his pocket. Stark’s face turned from a charming smile to a confused grimace as he stuck his hand in deeper, but apparently finding nothing.

“Sorry, ladies and gentlemen… I would have timed this for 8pm precisely, but… I can’t seem to find my pocket watch.”

His pocket watch? Where was his…

Oh God no.

Peter uncurled his fingers from around the watch he had in his hand, and with shaking digits he pried open the metallic cover to reveal the simple yet elegant engraving in the watch.

T. Stark.

Good God no.

At the same time that this happened, he looked up in horror to see Stark’s eyes wandering around the crowd. Their eyes locked, and a look of recognition blossomed on Stark’s face as they stared at each other, quickly replaced by a look that Peter couldn’t decipher when the man’s gaze fell to his hands.

He had to get out of here. Now.

He began hurrying past the spectators, barely noticing their outcries as he shoved past them. He had to get away before the peelers came after him, he had to, he-

He didn’t see the horse-drawn carriage hurtling in his direction.


	4. A Second First Meeting

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the horse carriage incident, Peter wakes up to utter luxury.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you so much for the comments and kudos! They keep this going, so please leave as many as you like!
> 
> Also follow me on tumblr you cowards: trufaxz.tumblr.com

The throbbing sensation in his head was the first thing Peter noticed when he came to. He didn’t open his eyes just yet, the pain too much to even lift his eyelids. He tilted his head back, sighing in relief as he rested against the silk pillows.

Wait. Silk pillows?

Bit by bit, Peter opened his eyes. He definitely hadn’t been sleeping against silk pillows the last time he was awake, or in a bed at all for that matter. What exactly was going on? He needed to think.

So he had… he had taken the pocket watch, and then he saw the man… What was his name? 

Stark! Stark was his name. And then… he knew he had taken the watch, so Peter had tried to run, and that was when…

The horses. He remembered now. He had collided with one, and that was enough to send him straight to the cobblestoned street, his arms sheltering his head and his entire body curling up into a ball as he prayed that the horse and carriage wouldn’t run him over. 

He had hit his head quite painfully against the stone, and now he brought his hand up to feel the damage, a bump was forming against his crown. He winced when he touched it, but the question in his head still lingered.

How did he go from lying on stone to lying on silk?

Peter gazed around the room once he had come to. Sunlight streamed through the window, casting beams of light across the king-sized bed. The room was lined with bookshelves, floor to ceiling and groaning with books that begged to be read. A desk was stood in the corner of the room, with untidy papers strewn across it, a quill and ink pot holding those papers down. The wall opposite had a large window, wide open and a gentle breeze blowing through lace curtains. 

He dropped his gaze to his lap, where his hands laid atop the soft blankets, and simply sat there as thought after thought went whizzing through his head. Whose house was he in? What had happened after he passed out? Where was he?

Almost all of those questions were answered immediately when he heard the door click and swing open, revealing the very last person he wanted to see standing behind it. Instantly, Peter reacted, shuffling up the bed to try and get up.

“Relax, boy, it’s alright. I won’t hurt you.” Stark said, stretching his hands out in Peter’s direction to try and calm him down. “If you move any more, you’ll hurt yourself.”

Peter’s breathing had instantly sped up the second Stark had entered the room, and he wanted more than anything to leap out of the bed and make a run for it. However, even moving his arms caused his whole body to ache, and a random flash of pain across his head had Peter collapsing back where he laid, groaning quietly.

“You took quite the fall last night. It seemed like you were dead for a moment, but when we realised you were still breathing, I offered to take you back to my home.” Stark explained, slowly entering the room and leaving the door wide open. After a few seconds, in which neither of them spoke, the man sat down on the edge of the bed, causing Peter to flinch with uneasiness. 

“Who are you?” Peter asked dumbly. Maybe it was the concussion talking, but Peter couldn’t stop the question before the words came tumbling out of his mouth.

“I feel like I should be asking you that question. After all, it’s not going to be likely that we both have the name “T. Stark”, now are we? On the same engraved pocket watch?” Stark asked, a smirk tugging at his lips as he uncurled his fingers to reveal the golden watch sitting on his palm, with the engraving showing. Peter instantly blushed, a deep crimson colour that spread from the tips of his ears down to his neckline, and caused Stark to only grin wider.

“I-I… I’m Peter.” God, this was embarrassing. 

“Very nice to meet you, Peter. I’m glad we have the formalities out of the way, because…” Stark looked down at his watch for a moment. “I have to be downstairs for a meeting. It won’t take too long, I assure you, so just try and get some more rest, and I’ll bring you up some breakfast when I’m done. How does that sound?”

Peter could only nod gormlessly as Stark’s face broke out into a wider, genuine smile, the corners of his eyes crinkling up and a shine visible in both of his deep brown irises. Without another word, Stark got up and headed out of the room, shutting the door gently behind him.

How did he trust Peter not to take the contents of this room and run? Peter was left sat in awe, but not for very long. Ever so slowly, he swung his legs off the side of the bed and stood up, gripping onto the brass bedpost for support. He realised that he was wearing white, cotton pyjamas, which was definitely not what he was wearing yesterday evening, and that his entire body was scrubbed clean. Did that mean that Stark…?

Peter shook the thought out of his head, and slowly inched his way towards the bookcases. He gazed up at them, each book bound in rich, coloured leather with red ribbon acting as a bookmark. He pulled a book out at random, careful to hold the rest in place, and opened it up to a random page. To his dismay, it was nothing but words. 

Peter couldn’t read. Not many people could, especially not of his class, and it made him upset at how the words on the page just seemed like gibberish to him, the letters mixing up and flying around his vision, leaving him confused and slightly discombobulated. After a few minutes of squinting at the pages, he decided to leave the book, sliding it back into its rightful place on the shelf and taking a step back. 

The desk caught his eye. He sidled over to it, tilting his head as he picked up a sheet of paper to look at it. This paper didn’t have much writing, but rather diagrams of some kind of complicated machinery. It seemed to be an engine of some sort, Peter concluded, and each differing diagram had small annotations coming off the side, which Peter couldn’t read. Not that he cared for the annotations, not when the drawings themselves were so detailed and so meticulous.

He was getting lost in the details when the door swung open again, and Peter let out a squeal of surprise. Stark was stood behind him, an amused grin on his face, but with no tray of food in hand. 

“Y-You’re… You’re done already?” Peter said stupidly, fidgeting where he stood.

“It wasn’t a very long meeting, and frankly I was getting rather bored of it anyway. I have better things to do.” Stark said, and Peter didn’t miss the glint of mischief in the man’s eye when he spoke. Something about it made the boy drop his gaze to the floor, and the blush creep higher up his cheeks.

“I thought you could come down for breakfast. Seeing as you’re standing and walking, a couple of stairs will be no trouble for you, hm?” Stark asked, and Peter simply nodded in response. When he looked back up, the man was holding his hand out for Peter to take, a simple gesture to help guide him in the direction of the dining room.

After a moment’s hesitation, Peter took the man’s hand.


	5. A Misunderstanding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Breakfast.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter's a short one, yikes, but thank you so much for 1000+ hits and 80+ kudos! Means the world x
> 
> Send me ideas over at trufaxz.tumblr.com

Peter’s never seen so much food in his life.

It probably wasn’t even that much, he thought to himself, but any amount of food that can amply fill up a dinner plate was more than enough for him. 

The breakfast spread on the dining table was impressive, and Peter had barely sat down before he was piling stuff onto the small plate set out in front of him. Stark watched him with an amused grin, but said nothing as he too started to pick out the food that he wanted from the spread.

A few minutes passed of companionable silence, in which Peter wolfed down the breakfast food like he had never ate before, while Stark sipped his coffee. The two of them kept stealing glances at the other, when they thought they wouldn’t notice, and this continued until Stark cleared his throat pointedly.

“So, Peter…”

The boy flinched in his seat, his hand hovering above where he was about to grab another croissant off of the spread. His gaze fell onto Stark’s face, and his eyes went a little wider when they made eye contact. He didn’t dare speak, simply waited for Stark.

“…You seem a little worse for ware, all things considered. You’re too young to be living on the street like you do, and the danger you put yourself into for what I can only assume is meagre amounts of food each day is unacceptable.”

Peter narrowed his eyes slightly. “What’re you gettin’ at?”

“What I’m suggesting, Peter, is that you stay here for a while. You don’t need to live out there anymore, not if I have anything to do with it.”

Peter looked confused, but then as understanding dawned on his face, the look dropped to one of annoyance. “And what do I have to do in return? Wash your dishes? Make your beds? Become a full-time slave? What’s the catch?”

Stark chuckled at Peter’s outburst. “Not at all, dear boy, not at all. You jus-“

“What? Let me guess, I have to whore myself out to you like some… some common nightwalker? Well thanks but no thanks, I don’t need your charity. I do fine on my own.” Peter spat, standing up from where he sat and his hand coming down to grip the edge of the dining table. Stark, on the other hand, remained where he was, coolly gazing up at Peter with his legs crossed and one hand on his lap while the other held his cup of coffee.

“Feisty. Very well, then, I suppose you won’t be staying. I’ll let Jarvis show you where your belongings had been kept.” Stark said, before nodding to the man standing at the corner of the room. Peter hadn’t noticed him previously, having been too focussed on the breakfast spread on the table, but when he spun around to face him, the butler merely raised an eyebrow and gestured for the boy to follow him.

As they left the room, Peter in Jarvis’ wake, Peter couldn’t help but feel a little bad. Not for snapping, no, he wasn’t sorry for that at all. He was just sorry that this… Jarvis had to see it. He decided to say this to the butler, who simply shook his head fondly.

“It’s alright. I do wish you would reconsider though. You may not have known each other long, but I would admit that your interactions have made Master Anthony smile properly for the first time in a few weeks. It is entirely up to you, though. Don’t allow me to sway your opinion.” The butler spoke primly, before pushing open the guest bedroom door to let Peter gather his things.

Now that Peter looked, it was embarrassing how little he owned. It was literally just the clothes off his back, with the flat cap resting neatly on the pile. He took a glance back to see that the guest bedroom door had shut behind him, before quickly getting changed back into his clothes. It was a shame to get rid of the pyjamas that Stark had lent him, but he wouldn’t want them where he was headed.

Once he left the room and shut the door behind him, Jarvis led him to the front door. Peter kind of wanted to say goodbye to Stark, but after how he had snapped at him, maybe that wasn’t the best idea. The door swung open, revealing the bright sunlight of mid-morning, and Peter stepped out onto the street, before turning back to look at the house, and Jarvis, one more time.

“Think about it, Peter.” Jarvis said, with a wry smile, before gently shutting the front door.

Think about it.

Think about it.

Think about it.


End file.
